


agrypnia

by skitty_titty



Series: after midnight [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Insomnia, M/M, warnings in the notes.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-07 14:15:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16410008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skitty_titty/pseuds/skitty_titty
Summary: prompto can't sleep. he deals with this unhealthily.





	agrypnia

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt, 'insomnia'. 
> 
>  
> 
> warnings:  
> -insomnia  
> -unhealthy coping mechanisms  
> -self hate

it’s been a while since prompto’s had a full night sleep. after a while, he started to get used to the bitter taste of coffee, it being the only thing that manages to actually allow him the move in the morning.

he’s training — perhaps unsuccessfully — to be in the crownsguard. he stays late at nights to make up for his shitty lack of progress. it’s better to shoot and shoot and shoot, than to toss and turn, thinking about everything you’d rather be.

so it’s one in the morning, currently. the citadel is mostly dark, though a few offices are still alight, along with certain parts of the hospital wing. the path to the training grounds is dimly lit by the occasional light hanging off the brick wall, and prompto follows it.

the coffee is so hot it’s almost burning his hand. good.

when he arrives, he takes another swig of it. he stretches his shoulders, his legs, flinching when they crack back at him. to warm up, he takes a couple of laps around the place, even when his limbs feel sluggish. if he had to give a reason, he’d pretend it’s to build up endurance, and not that there’s something wrong with his fucking brain.

locked as always, the store cupboard keys are never particularly well hidden. nabbing them out of the hook they’re hanging off is an easy chore and he unlocks it with ease, grabbing a few training dummies.

he either works on his knife skills — which are lacking — or with guns, which are illegal and make him sick to hold, but he has to because they’re the only thing he can even fucking manage.

so he grabs the gun he’d been allowed to borrow. signs his name in with pencil, just in case someone walks in; he’ll erase it later, but at least he isn’t breaking any rules at the moment, anyway. it does little work on his conscience.

starting with more simple techniques, he stands close to the target, barely ten metres away, and shoots. he thinks he’s gotten the stance down and the recoil doesn’t make his arm ache anymore. each time he hits five shots in a row, he takes two steps back.

eventually, he’s reached the white line; the one where it starts getting difficult.

as he takes a shot, he moves from side to side, sometimes stepping back again, sometimes stepping forward. moving targets aren’t the easiest to set up and you need supervision to even look at them, so prompto manages with the tools he's given.

he works until he stops missing a shot. the next time he breathes is when the targets look thoroughly abused. one or two might be salvageable, but the other three aren’t worth it.

tick, tock: the call of his watch. he looks to his left wrist and reads 03:57 AM. it blinks and him, red and glaring. he sets to tidying up after himself, leaving the destroyed targets by the storeroom. it’s incriminating evidence, but no one will know it’s him. he rubs out his name.

taking half an hour — or maybe it's closer to forty minutes — to shower, accompanied with the fact that just moving after two hours of sleep is difficult at best, his movements becoming lethargic and draining, makes him one of the later trainees to arrive. he wonders if he can actually be any more exhausted. his late appearance means he has to clean up after himself before he goes back home because leaving the practise room a mess is just setting you up for trouble. everyone hates cleaning up mess that’s not their own.

slipping the key back up to where it belongs, he takes a seat on one of the benches used during training exercises. his coffee is cold but he drinks it nevertheless. it is bitter and it aches, his dietary habits coming back to haunt him. moving sounds like a death sentence, so he doesn’t move; closing his eyes, though, would be to admit defeat, and he can’t risk falling asleep here. mindlessly, with eyes emptier than his desolate apartment, he stares at the floor, occasionally lifting the coffee cup to his lips, again and again, until it’s empty. this marks the time he has to go.

it’s well into four AM now. time flies when you’re contemplating your existence, after all.

passing a bin on his way out, he drops his cup in it, listening for the _clang!_ it gives as it hits the metal base. to shield himself from the chill that was certainly not there before, he shoves his hands into the loose jacket he wears; it’s summer, but the nights can be unforgiving at the worst of times. he can feel his red cheeks _burn_ and the howl of wind in his ears leaves him breathless. it is as if he is being crushed.

getting out of the citadel is always easier than getting in. he shows his identification to the same guard who was there four hours ago, watching as they press the button to buzz him through, opening the gate; their face filled with barely concealed tiredness, even if they look long used to the night shift.

blinking, he’s back at home again. he doesn't remember the journey; zoning out is a blessing and a curse.

he doesn’t bother to strip, collapsing into his bed. he’ll be up and out again, in the very same clothes, in a few more hours anyway.

slipping away, he finally shuts his eyes and falls asleep as the sun starts to rise up in the sky.

 

 

* * *

 

 

the next night is very much the same. it’s been like this for a while.

though the guard who opens the gate changes; though the coffee always tastes the slightest bit different; though he’ll arrive home a minute later or five minutes earlier than normal. he’s stuck in a bit of a cycle, where grammar rules don’t matter and it hurts to even breathe.

he needs to work hard, though, for noctis and so he actually gets a job once the two-to-four year training course is over. most of the time it hardly seems worth it, but he’s already started and fucked up every aspect of his life that might even have been okay, so he might as well keep going.

anyway, this story needs to progress in some way and i’m not here to repeat the same detailed bullshit i told you two minutes ago. he snags the key, sets up the targets, scribbles his name down, and grabs a gun. he continues with it until one of the targets doesn’t have a heart anymore, or a brain. no room for love and no room for thinking about how you have no room for love. nice.

it’s not as late as it was yesterday, but his shoulder still feels off from where he was punched in it, slightly too forceful during training, when he accidentally missed a dodge. under orders to let it rest, he did _not_ do that and now he’s paying the price. he lies down in the middle of the room, dropping his gun — after making sure the safety is on — next to him. stretching his fingers and toes, he straightens his legs and arms and shoulders to try to release some of the tension and there’s nothing better to do. he probably looks like a starfish out of water, but who cares.

the next thing he knows is that he’s asleep.

maybe not. the next thing he knows is that he’s awake, which means he must have fallen asleep somewhere down the line. there’s a face peering at him, while they’re knelt by his side. when prompto blinks enough, lifting his arm to shield his eyes from the sun shining through the large open windows — just how late is it? — prompto realises just who is lying next to him.

nyx ulric.

also known as the hero of the glaives.

now, prompto has only heard things about the man in passing, having never had the opportunity to meet him, so you can be safely assured that prompto is fucking terrified. he sits up quickly, bolt upright, as ulric startles and moves back in shock.

“i thought you were asleep, kid.” nyx says, but he tacks on a laugh at the end. “sure know how to startle a man.”

“sorry.” prompto rasps out. his throat aches, gasping for water. his training bottle sits half full on the bench. and then everything really sets in: the rising sun, the fact someone else is here in the training room and prompto hasn’t yet gone home. “oh fuck!” prompto exclaims. still, he figures it’s too late to do anything about it so he lies back down again, taking a deep breath that leaves him coughing.

“you ill?”

“don’t know.” prompto replies. “feels like it, but it could be the anxiety talking.”

he gets a hum. an acknowledgement with empathy rather than sympathy.

“you’re a trainee, right?”

“yup.”

“have any sick days left?”

“a few.”

“come on, then.” nyx says, and he nudges prompto’s leg with his foot. “up you get. i’ll even call it in for you, so you don’t have to deal with the marshall.”

“don’t bring him up in my weakened state.” prompto groans, eyes still closed as he follows nyx, dragged by his jacket, dangerously close to his hand. “what’re you even doin’ here anyway?”

“can't sleep usually, so i’m normally one of the first here.” nyx replies, with casual aloofness, as if it’s something he’s used to. if he’s anything like prompto, it probably is. “we’ve got more in common than you think, prompto.”

later, he’ll probably wonder how nyx even knows his name but, right now, he just nods, though even that takes effort and coordination.

“stay here.” nyx commands, like prompto could even move on his own. the hand disappears from prompto’s wrist, though, and he mourns the lack of touch. he shuts his eyes, starts to slide down against the wall, fading, and then—

“not quite, buddy. still have to get you home.”

“wha’?”

“come on.”

instead of it being around his wrist, nyx loops an arm tight around prompto’s waist, placing prompto’s arm around his shoulders. prompto can’t find it in him to complain.

they make a brief stop when prompto starts choking, nyx pulling out the water bottle he grabbed earlier, letting prompto take little sips from it. drinking too quickly leaves him full, and he’s not really in the mood for drowning anymore.

the rest of the journey goes smoothly. he remembers nothing of how he got home — or whether he even got home, if he’s being honest. all he knows is that this bed is so fucking _soft_ , and he’s already asleep before he’s closed his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

he wakes up again a few hours later, curled around something warm. the curtains are shut tight and block out any light, so prompto can’t tell the time. he doesn’t check his wrist either; to move would be to break the illusion.

one thing he does do is snuggle closer. if the pillow wraps an arm around him, pressing lightly like a protective shield, he doesn’t comment, only sighs in content.

 

* * *

 

there’s something shaking his shoulder.

it was hesitant, but now it’s persistent, pressing again and again in a rhythm. there’s someone talking to, and it takes a while for him to register it.

in response to nyx’s first few attempts, prompto had burrowed deeper, making noises of discontent. now, he slowly starts to reemerge from the blanket he’d hidden in.

“you up now, prom?” nyx says, soft in his ear.

“might be.” prompto replies. wait. “prom?”

“i figured after we slept in the same bed four about-” he checks his wrist, which does not have a watch on it- “ten hours, i feel like we’re close enough for nicknames.”

“oh.” prompto replies. “what time is it?”

“can’t do maths this late, prom? it’s two.”

“in the afternoon?”

“in the afternoon.”

“ _shit_.” it’s filled with all the panic that he can muster, which is little. the bed is too warm for panic.

“food first, worry later.” he helps prompto sit up, placing a plateful of food on his lap. it’s a lot, and nyx realises this when prompto looks at it, wide-eyed. “i didn’t know what to grab.” he says, sheepish.

“i don’t know whether i can manage all of it.” prompto says. “i mean…”

“eat what you can, prom.” he says. “i might grab a bite or two, so pretend we’re sharing, if it makes it easier.”

there’s a long pause of silence between the two, with prompto’s knife and fork occasionally scrapping at the plate as he cuts up squares of an omelette, and nyx lying down next to him, just breathing. it all feels dangerously familiar, dangerously comfortable —  prompto doesn’t like to get used to the things he doesn’t deserve.

“hey, quit thinking.” nyx says, when he takes too long to breathe.

“we can’t all be like you.” the banter rolls of his tongue easily, and nyx huffs out a small laugh. it’s short and cute, and prompto finds himself admiring a little more than he should.

nyx doesn’t seem to notice, though, or seem to care. “glad you got a sense of humour, prom.” it’s left at that. “feeling better, though?”

“honestly?”

“honestly.”

“a bit.” he responds, pausing to think about his answer. “it’s been a while since i slept that well. usually, it’s two or three hours on a shitty couch because i can't even quite make it to the bed, and then an occasional nap if i'm lucky.”

“maybe we’ll have to do this more often then.” it’s worded like a suggestion, but it’s an offer. prompto should turn it down —  he knows he should — but the bed’s too warm and nyx is pressed against his thigh, looking at him with eager eyes, and prompto can’t find it in him to break the man’s heart. it’s not really a chore, anyway. maybe he should treat himself from time to time. “saves you dealin’ with the couch.”

“hey.” prompto says, grinning true for what feels like the first time in months. “i’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> pinterest: [ignis](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/hokseok/ignis-stupeo-scientia-ffxv/) | [prompto](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/hokseok/prompto-argentum-ffxv/)  
>  
> 
>   
> youtube (music playlists): [ffxv](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL_rSVvI_mwOzblAt0IjaLoTNJNZ07ZIZu)  
> 


End file.
